


Mama knows best.

by skinnylittlered



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction
Genre: Angst, Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The final step in their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mama knows best.

For the thousandth time in the course of twelve hours, she damns her birth assigned gender.

It’s been a long day at the office and her palms are sore from all the coffee carrying she’s done and her vision is particularly blurry because ain’t nobody got time for lowering the cover of the Xerox machine, that leaving out of consideration the obnoxiously perfectionist ways of her boss whose major pet peeve appears to be the copy not folding exactly where the middle line is because the book slightly shifted when she put the lid on, therefore she is to, without exception, hold it herself so it is perfectly centred at all times.

It’s not like that harlot can read anyway.

Of course, that falls right amidst the already immense and expanding pile of assignments she is expected to attend to on a five days a week basis, no complaints (to her employer’s face, that is, or anybody in her intimate entourage. But who the fuck spends time with those idiotic space wasters, really, but themselves, since no one can stand them beyond the point of cordial greetings spat through gritted teeth) unless she is up to dealing with what appears to be a never-endingly menstruating uncultured vixen that makes it a personal challenge to be insufferable even on her good days.

Needless to say, with her psyche worn until she’ll have had out at least eight hours of sleep in her system, and her mood down in the shithole, the sole thing she’s looking forward to for the night is to somehow take off those god-forsaken skinny jeans that cut off all circulation from her waist down but magically make it seem like she has an ass, and camp out in the guest room so she’ll successfully reach an idle state of the mind as much resembling comatose as possible, no late arriving boyfriend startling her just as she’s about to slip into messianic unconsciousness, thing that is exactly what happens roughly an hour later, when rhythmical knocks pull her out of that mellifluous pre-slumber dormancy.

“Babe, are you in there?” the voice is stifled, being behind the door and all but, despite her being more or less dead to the world, she can clearly discern slight unease, probably brought about by her yet to be explained choice of giving up their shared bed.

The thought of his cataclysmic puppy eyes rather than common sense is what, against her better judgement – or lack of it thereof – determines her to grumble out a response of sorts, which he takes as an invitation to join her in the tenebrous and very much silent until now space, which makes her mentally roll her eyes, because her interjection was more of an assurance of wellbeing rather than what he’s interpreted it as. One would think that switching rooms is indication enough of their will of being left alone, yet tonight Tom deems himself unable to take a hint; quite peculiar for one as receptive of the ways of human nature as he is from nativity.

His steps are heavy and few as expected, for such interminable inferior limbs can only cover double the space in half the time, much insufferably for her – a petite and greatly athletically challenged folk, suffering from an acute insufficiency of motivation to exercise her motor skills other than when strictly necessary. Their bedroom activities are, needless to say, the reason why the man is so impeccably toned at all times.

He sits on the bed besides her and with the utmost gentility palpates her forehead and cheeks, checking for any worrisome fluctuations in temperature. Finding none, he settles for verbal inspection, unsuccessfully attempting to catechize the borderline moribund limply planted in his vicinity, only to receive mute consonants as refutation to his worries.

Entirely outside of his cognition she is getting proportionally irate with his nursing, beseeching any and all deities above for him to take a damn hint and leave her the fuck alone – it would be most imprudent of her to spend another moment of enabled brain activity today whereas she’ll go demented. She is a woman who recognizes her limits, after all, and they are precariously close to being surpassed. That is, until the cursed words leave his mouth and a circuit glitches somewhere in her cerebrum.

“Should I call my mother and cancel tonight?”

_Oh, bitch-ass-fuck-bucket-motherfucker, was it today?!_

It’s not an actual invitation as it is a warning and, before she can stop herself, she blurts out a long series of intertwined no’s, each more agonising and onerous to speak than its predecessor and all stirring incredulousness in her gut, at the prospect of even more turmoil for the day that she so arduously wished to just be over.

And this very fact is triggered by the monumental loathing she bears for the birth-giver/ up-bringer of the man she oh-so-dearly adores, unequalled by that of the forenamed elder, who abhors her twice as much and then some more and generally regards her irremediably unfit to fill in the excessively coveted role that being her handsome, talented, smart and all around prodigious offspring’s spouse is. So she won’t cancel, because she’s better than that elitist harpy and she utterly spurns the mere thought of playing along to her ruses, fully aware that their denouement is to be Tom having to choose between the couple of them, which she is densely repelled by.  

On account of his cravenness; on knowing that he’d drop her and a hundred more likewise for those whose blood is same as his – the main condition of genetics and not at all compatibility.

She eventually shifts, the inference that she _will_ , at some point tonight, sleep trussing up her glaringly vitiated poise, and groans recollecting her outfit of choice: a dress in the most luscious chocolate hue that she’s ever seen which her best friend insisted that she’d buy specifically for the occasion, ‘Show that bitch some class’ being her precise phrasing. She purchased it straight off, as it made her look tall and lean and downright fucking royal, trying to mind as little as possible the hole in her credit card that came along with it. She also tried to overpass her companion’s immediate question of ‘Why don’t you let _him_ pay for it?’, especially as he’s offered not only once before to cover for such expenses, and her unspoken rebuttal – _I don’t want to give_ her _the satisfaction_ – and then the guilt. His mother had nothing to do with it.

_But she did. She always does._

“Baby, is there anything wrong?”

The tears come forth before her words do.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, cupcake :)


End file.
